Hen’s night

Today was Chris’s buck’s day/night, which is British/Aussie slang for bachelor party. He decided to have a multigenerational celebration, so his uncles and dad came, as well. While he was away with his male family and friends, his mom treated me to afternoon tea at the Hotel Windsor, one of the oldest and most glamorous hotels in Melbourne. On weekends, they have a special treat for afternoon tea guests, as they serve you a glass of French champagne and have a full dessert buffet in the middle of the tea room that includes a tall chocolate fountain, in which you can dip various chunked fruit and cakes, a Christmas pudding station, a custom crepe station with a server making each delicate crepe from scratch, and what seemed like an endless variety of petit fours, French sweets, and other individually portioned cakes, pies, slices, and desserts, everything from mango cheesecake, crème brulee, vanilla mille feuille, pistachio and raspberry cakes with intense pistachio flavor, fruit mince pies, multiple flavors of macarons, and mousses.

The usual tiered afternoon tea stands were gracefully presented at our table with a layer of crust-less tea sandwiches, little savory eclairs, mini meat mince pies, and savory pumpkin tarts, and topped with these perfect little scones, some plain, some with dried fruit. The variety of mango and passion fruit desserts made this experience uniquely Aussie vs. American, as well as the fruit and meat mince pies. The savory use of pumpkin was also more expected of the Aussie use of pumpkin in food, whereas I’d never seen this before at any afternoon tea spot in San Francisco or New York. Another thing that made this experience more Aussie was the subpar service. At afternoon tea at a five-star hotel in the U.S., such as the Plaza Hotel in New York, where I’ve had tea once, they present your tea almost immediately after you choose your leaf selection, and they eagerly come to refill your tiered trays as soon as they are even just half empty. There, they constantly come to dote on you and ask you if you need anything else. Here, a server came to ask to replenish only once, and our individual tea pots came out almost 20 minutes after our tiered trays came out, which was pretty ridiculous. No one came to replenish our hot water until almost an hour and a half into our dining session, too. And when I exclaimed in excitement, “Wow, there’s a custom crepe station?” when I saw the crepe chef in the middle of the room flipping, she grunted, “Yes, there is,” with the most surly facial expression possible. The servers here really seemed to hate their job and hate serving.

We came back home, and in a few hours, all of Chris’s female cousins, aunts on his dad’s side, and mom’s cousin and daughter in the area came for a semi-surprise “hen’s night” party in honor of me. We enjoyed food, conversation, a game that included a video of Chris, another around clothes pins, and Loaded Questions, and so many laughs that triggered the lingering effects of my whooping cough and further exacerbated the aches and pains in my back muscles and ribs through the night. We were all together for just over five hours, yet when I think back to my original bridal shower and bachelorette weekend back in San Francisco and Monterey in September, I realized I probably laughed more and harder tonight than I did at my own event with my own friends and family then. I guess it makes more sense since everyone here knows each other really well and we have a connection to each other, as opposed to the people back home who didn’t really know each other at all and were meeting for the first time, but it was just an observation and take away I had at the end of the night. We did have Chris’s mom’s cousin and daughter come, the daughter I met once last year and really liked, and the cousin I was meeting for the very first time tonight, and somehow they fit in straight away and got into all the inside jokes.

I guess if I really had to sum it up, the group of ten women tonight vs. the group of six in Monterey and about 16 in San Francisco are just more laid back and easy going. Uptightness doesn’t seem to exist in this group (a smidgen with Chris’s mom, but even that is so mild compared to my circle back home), and everyone truly does go with the flow and doesn’t take anything that seriously. I don’t know if uptightness is a disposition that one is just born with or something one is conditioned to be or not be based on nurture and environment, but it’s a relief to not worry so much about what I am saying or doing, fearing that I may offend someone in the room. I know if we were ever to play Loaded Questions or listen to Chris on video answering questions about himself and then me answering and comparing, a lot of my own female family members, if not ALL of them, would decline or refuse to partake in the activity, and some, like my mom, may even get offended at Chris’s answers or some of the Loaded Question questions. What will be really interesting to see is how all these women get along during our wedding week coming up in March, and if my side will even make the slightest effort to get to know these women traveling so far over beyond “Hi. How are you?” and “How do you know Yvonne/Chris?”

Menace

Last night, I dreamt I was at home, and my dad was showing Ed how to do something in the kitchen. My dad has a lot of good qualities, but teaching is not one of them. In fact, he’s probably the last person I know who I’d ever ask to teach me something because he gets extremely impatient and frustrated easily when showing anyone how to do anything. He thinks people can read his mind when he has explanations that he chooses not to verbalize because they are simply “common sense.”

Needless to say, this session was not going well, and my dad starts criticizing my brother, saying he’s doing it all wrong, that he’s useless and can’t do anything right. Ed immediately walks away from the kitchen and goes into the back room of the house. I follow him and start running after him. Ed is facing the window, and I said, “Hey… turn around. Let me give you a hug.” He reluctantly turns around and looks at my face and then opens his arms towards me. I hug him and hold him tightly, and then I start crying. “It’s okay, Ed,” I said to him, rubbing his back. “You’re not useless. You can do lots of things well. I know you can. I love you. You’re going to remember that, right?” He says nothing, but I can feel his tears dripping on my back, and he tightens his grip on me.

And a happy Boxing Day to you, too.

“Prezzies”

Today was Christmas day and Chris’s birthday (which he always annoyingly tries to ignore and says he is trading birthdays with someone else every year), and this year, his parents hosted the day at their house. Everyone brings food, games, and gifts over for the two little boys and Nana, except for Chris and me, since he insists every single person in the family needs a gift (and guess who has to wrap it all?) and he doesn’t follow rules. We have a gift giving and opening session when the boys open their endless toys and Nana opens all her God- and crystal-related “prezzies” (Aussie slang for “presents”). And inevitably every year this has happened, I am bored to death and want to escape.

It’s not that I don’t like exchanging gifts; I actually love the act when everyone is exchanging and opening gifts… and the people are adults. Adult presents are interesting when they are opened; sometimes, they have inside jokes, hidden meanings, or are symbolic. Children gifts are never like this; what child is that complex? Children presents are so repetitive, and generally almost always very gendered. Because the family so far has two boys, all the toys and gifts are around things like cars, trucks, and Thomas the Tank. And because they are so young, they think all wrapped gifts are for them, so they immediately run to the Christmas tree and try to unwrap all the gifts even though they aren’t all for them. This is not a stage of childhood when I have my own children that I will look forward to. I wonder if I can ever host a child’s birthday party and get away with not opening gifts in front of everyone. Chances are, I probably won’t because that’s what everyone’s expectations are.

License plate

We did the usual Melbourne-at-Christmas-time routine today on Christmas Eve: prepared food for Christmas day, went to pick up more food for Nana’s grandchildren’s gathering, went to the cemetery to remember Appa, Chris’s grandpa, and had an evening of food and Carols by Candlelight on TV at Nana’s. On the drive back to Chris’s parents’ after the night was over, I noticed a car in front of us with a license plate that began with “1ED.” I stared at it for a while and thought about Ed. Ed has actually crept up on this trip a few times — once in Sydney during my walk to the fish market, another time in Tassie while on the road, and now on the way back to Chris’s parents’ the night of Christmas Eve. I’ve noticed streets named after him. On the way to the Sydney fish market, I saw the back side of a man who resembled my brother, everything from the way he walked to the way he moved his arms.

Christmas time is generally a happy time for me because I love Christmas trees, decorations, carols, and food, but at the same time, it’s always a little agonizing and painful because I not only remember Ed and how he isn’t here, but I am reminded yet again of my own broken family and how unhappy they all are. Some people say that maybe if Ed were still here, I wouldn’t feel this way, but I know that isn’t true. If Ed were still here, I might even feel worse, knowing I was thousands of miles away from him during Christmas day, which would prevent him from having any of his own celebration, even with something as simple as just exchanging gifts together. It’s never the same when you send gifts and open them separately. There’s not that much joy in that, especially for someone like Ed. It would be unlikely I’d ever be in San Francisco for Christmas even if he were still here, as selfish as that sounds. I’d consider flying him somewhere I would be, but he’d likely resist and say he wouldn’t want to go. That was typical Ed — never wanted anything, even though he criticized me for the same thing. Ed never really wanted things; deep inside, I know he just wanted love, affection, and acceptance. It hurts to remember that he never really got any of those things from anyone, but it’s all in the past now. There’s nothing left to do.

He finds his way to me even though he isn’t here anymore. He’d be a hard person for me to forget even if I really wanted to. I hope that in his way of reaching me, whether it’s through my friend and her husband in a photo frame, through street signs, in dreams, and even via Australian license plates, that he is expressing he knew how much I loved him, and he’s acknowledging he loved me just as much and misses me… even though he chose to leave this life.

Mum meetup

After coming back from Tassie, Chris and I met up with his two good friends from college who are both his age, and also married with two kids each of their own. Both had their youngest children just this past year and were sharing their stories about expensive childcare, au pairs, and how being parents has changed their life (and eliminated most of their free time). I told them the horror stories I’ve shared with everyone about how even farther away I felt from motherhood after seeing Chris’s cousin’s wife not being able to enjoy her brother and sister-in-law’s France wedding as much because of her two screaming children, and they insisted to me, “Oh, no! Don’t let that put you off. Children are so cute and fun! You will love it once you have them!” They asked me if we were planning to have children soon after the wedding (I’m sure they just assumed I was closer in age to them and Chris), and I immediately said no.

We spent most of the time talking about their children and their experiences with being parents in general. They are both intelligent, interesting people outside of being parents. But listening to them talk about their parenting experiences made me feel so bored. I know that sounds mean, and parenthood and raising children are very important and certainly not things to take lightly, but I wanted to hear more about them and their own lives. Oh, wait. Their own lives are all about their kids now. I forgot. They did say that they wanted more outside of being mothers, and that they would continue their careers even though of course, it would be a challenge. It’s always a challenge, whether external or internal, to have children and then have a life outside it. You always feel guilty because you think, what if I did more for my children and spent more time with them — maybe that would make the quality of their lives better? These are endless thoughts for a topic that has no definitive answer.

Uh oh

I haven’t talked to my parents over the phone in over a week. It’s mainly because I was scared for them to hear my voice; this is the worst I’ve ever heard my own voice, and it often hurt just to speak given how heavily coated with phlegm my vocal chords were. I didn’t want to scare them into thinking I was dying, so I just emailed my dad to let him know I was a bit under the weather and would call when I felt better and could speak. I guess this didn’t go over so well with my mom, who freaked out and thought I was dying. I eventually revealed to them that I contracted whooping cough, so of course, dad printed out Web MD articles about the most extreme cases of whooping cough, where people have broken ribs, gotten brain damage, and had to suffer from extremely violent coughing for over 100 days, and I’m sure this added to my mom’s paranoia. The important thing, I thought, was that I caught it before the 3-week mark (that’s when my doctor said you would be doomed to violent coughing for three months because it would have reached maturity in your body and at that point be indestructible), so my antibiotics would work and help cure me by Christmas day. I thought they would be happy about this, but my mom freaked out even more.

“I know who is responsible for you getting this, but I’m not going to say,” she said in her accusing tone. That’s her nice way of saying she blames Chris. “You traveled and got this in that country.” No, not really. It’s not Australia’s fault. Everyone’s immunized from it here. Colds in New York don’t just magically become whooping cough in the Southern Hemisphere. I picked it up in New York. She wouldn’t hear it, though, and insisted she was right and “has wisdom,” and that she didn’t want to hear my lies and excuses. “And why didn’t he bother calling me when he knew you were sick and I was worrying? There’s absolutely no respect here.”

You can never really win with irrationality and paranoia.

Foodie mania in Tassie

After a couple days of antiobiotics, I am slowly regaining my desire to eat, and not just plain food. I didn’t realize before researching Tasmania what a foodie mecca it is, as it is famous for its great variety of fish, high quality oysters, leatherwood honey (among other varieties), all things dairy, particularly cheese and milk, and endless different fruit orchards. We had Tasmanian oysters last night just with a drizzle of lemon, and they were by far some of the creamiest and sweetest ones I’ve ever had. We tried trevalley fish, which is a local type of white fish, and its flesh was very firm and meaty — perfect for a good searing or being coated in batter or breadcrumbs for fish and chips. We had them in both preparations and were stunned by how satisfying it was. In just one day, we visited a honey farm (and saw all the honey bees at work, along with a great education on the different roles of bees. Who would have thought that the youngest bees of the hive actually act as real “under takers,” sweeping out any and all dead bodies to keep the hive clean!); a salmon and ginseng farm (tried hot smoked salmon for the first time, as usually smoked salmon back home is raw smoked, and even had a salad dressing with ginseng spice in it, which we ended up purchasing because of how unique it was); a raspberry farm (I was ignorant of the fact that there are many varieties of raspberries, and not just due to color); an ice cream factory, and a whisky (yes, they spell it without the “e” here) distillery (wow, is hard liquor expensive in Australia!). I lamented at the end of the day that we only have less than a day left here before returning to Melbourne and realized that you could easily spend weeks exploring Tasmania (or Tassie, as everyone colloquially calls it) and still not get through everything. And that was after everyone told us how “small” Tassie was! There are wine trails, endless foodie tour routes you can take, and of course, lots of hiking with incredible bays and scenic trails you can take by car or by foot.

This is the closest we have come to Antarctica or the bottom of the earth, and who knew how overwhelming from a food perspective it would all be?

Throat

After a day of antiobiotics, I still couldn’t sleep through the night and had to wake up for my coughing fits. But when I finally did wake up fully in the morning, I found that I actually did feel different. Today, for the first time in about five days, I actually could feel that I had a throat. It’s been blocked for what felt like eternity, and now, when I swallow or clear my throat, it actually feels slightly cleared! There’s no thick coating of phlegm there this morning. I still can’t speak properly, as every time I try to speak, it hurts a little unless I increase my pitch, and it comes out sounding like I am croaking or short of breath. It’s been weird to hear my own voice like this and feel myself being challenged to breathe when I speak. But I can already feel that there is light at the end of this dark tunnel.

Tasmanian doctor

Despite violently coughing and vomiting up food and phlegm, there was no way in hell I was going to cancel this long weekend trip we planned to Tasmania. I could rephrase that again as, there was no way in hell that Chris would have cancelled this trip, too. Being a native Australian, he has been very embarrassed to share with others that he still hadn’t visited Tasmania, but would use the excuse of taking me to finally see it himself. This trip was happening regardless of how sick I was.

Well, we arrived. Then on the very short car ride from the airport to our hotel, Chris had to stop the car so I could vomit up more phlegm. I felt like I was going to pop out all the veins in my face at that point, so we found the nearest doctor and made an appointment. I could barely speak at that point, so every word out of my mouth took effort. At the doctor’s office, after a thorough (and croaking) discussion of my timeline of symptoms, checking my vitals, and the doctor just happening to be there at a time when I had another coughing and vomiting fit (well, she heard through the thin walls since I did this in the bathroom and not in her lap), she determined that I had contracted whooping cough and would need to immediately start a course of antibiotics specific to this highly contagious respiratory disease. I wasn’t sure if I was in heaven or in hell — in heaven because finally, someone had given me a diagnosis that made sense that would rid me of the violent fits that had been exhausting my entire body, or in hell because… who gets whooping cough, especially at my age? And also, who would have given to this to me… back in New York?!

The other amazing thing is that I’d never had to visit a doctor during any of my international travels until today, so I’d never personally been exposed to medical practices outside of the U.S. Who would have thought my first visit would be here in Tasmania, with a doctor so casual that she didn’t even tell me her last name when introducing herself and only gave her first name? She listened and was extremely patient. I can’t even remember the last time I had a doctor who had given me that much time and shown so much compassion towards me. It’s as though every time I described another symptom in the week and a half timeline, it felt like she was feeling the pain, too. She gave me her phone number and said to ring her office at any time, and let the receptionist know she specifically said she’d fit me in any day I needed to see her in the next week if needed. I was so touched and grateful. “No worries,” she responded and smiled.

And don’t even get me started on the cost. I have no traveler’s insurance, no extra insurance I paid for through my own insurance plan, yet the cost of my visit was so affordable, and the price of my antibiotics prescription so low that I know for certain that every single American back home is being screwed, some even being pushed into debt and bankruptcy because of the senseless cost of healthcare there. If I were a foreigner visiting the U.S. with the same situation, I’d be terrified to know how much my visit would have cost.. and the cost of my prescription medication. Anyone who defends the American healthcare system has zero perspective on the rest of the world and the “true cost” of healthcare. Health is a right, not a privilege. Without health, you don’t have a life.

Choosing health

When I was a junior in college, I took a development economics course that explored economics and its complexities in third-world countries (I learned in that class that it could be perceived to be politically incorrect to even use the term “third-world,” so instead in our discussions, we had to use the term “developing” countries to differentiate from “developed” nations like the United States or the United Kingdom). In our very first session, our professor asked us a simple question: Take any developing nation in the world where the great majority of people are struggling and living on $1 USD/day or less. If you could choose one area of concern to tackle first, which would it be and why?

A few areas were given as examples, such as education, defense, health, water supply (in terms of cleanliness and ability to drink). I didn’t hesitate for a second and immediately jumped on education and started to build out a case for it. We got into small groups (our class was only about 20) and were organized by issue, and in the end we fought it out. And as important as education was, as much as we all strongly believed that every child should be entitled to formal schooling and learning how to read, write, do math, and learn about the rest of the world, my team lost. Why? Because you cannot succeed in educating a child if the child is too ill or even dying and cannot attend class.

I realized during this debate how naive I was and how I had taken my own life and life’s privileges for granted. Sure, I’d had a cold or a fever or an infection here and there growing up, but access to clean water, nutritious food, and basic healthcare have never been a problem for me. I never had to worry about issues like bugs eating away at my skin at night to the point that my bones were exposed, or suffering from endless infections due to being tested HIV positive at birth, or constantly vomiting hour after hour due to some fatal illness that no one could diagnose for me because I had no doctor within driving distance. At that point in my life, I’d only traveled to one other country — China, and even there I spent the majority of my time in the major metropolitan area of Shanghai and was never exposed to extreme poverty. I didn’t even know what it was. It wasn’t until I traveled to Vietnam two years later and went out to the countryside in the central part of the country when I really saw poverty stare at me in the face.

The reason I thought about this now is that the last two days, I’ve been stuck at Chris’s parents’ home, bed and couch-ridden with extreme respiratory infection symptoms. Every few hours, I’ve had to spend time kneeling in front of a toilet, vomiting up what felt like endless food and phlegm. I’ve actually been sick for the last almost two weeks, but it wasn’t until earlier this week when I realized the symptoms could be far worse than just a cold. People with a common cold don’t wake up three times during the night to violently cough and vomit for ten to twenty minutes at a time. They also don’t break capillaries under their eyes from coughing so hard that it feels like their faces and eyeballs are going to pop out of their skulls. Every time I got in front of the toilet and had tears running down my face because of the severity of my cough and vomit, I thought about how stupid and naive I was to choose education in that development economics class debate and completely disregard health. Would I, in my current state, be able to attend class and learn about World War II or organic chemistry and actually be able to pay attention and take all this information in? Sure, I’m not dying (at least, I don’t think I am). With my current illness, there’s absolutely no way it could be compared to the ill children in sub-Saharan Africa. But I feel terrible every time I think back to that course and think that I disregarded their basic human needs of health because I subconsciously assumed that would be fine (by choosing education), even if consciously, I knew it was so far from it. Times like this are when I check my privilege and remind myself of all my developed world comforts and how I take them for granted, even with broken capillaries and vomiting through the night.